


carve him as a dish (fit for the gods)

by an_ardent_rain



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Shippy Gen, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_ardent_rain/pseuds/an_ardent_rain
Summary: The next time Karen sees him, after months trying to convince herself she didn't care, she doesn't recognize the man he's carved himself into.





	carve him as a dish (fit for the gods)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Julius Caesar, Act 2, Scene I, Line 173
> 
> Very out of context and also I am apparently a pretentious nerdl
> 
> This was written on tumblr for a prompt from littlebirdofthenorth, "first meeting in the Punisher" - It definitely follows the prompt but is also very AU, because I have ignored the hair, the beard, and the murder poncho. Or blanket. Or whatever was wrapped around Frank when he was lurking in that picture from shooting, you know what I mean.

Karen wakes up with a half-strangled scream, her head pounding and her body sore. She has no idea what has happened to her - other than a few faded wisps of memory clamoring in her mind for attention, a fuzzy, incomplete picture of happened when she went chasing a lead. Last night, she thinks - she’s not sure if it’s morning now, but it can’t have been too long ago. She thinks. She hopes, because everything is dark and she has no idea where she is. No sense of time, no sense of place, and no one to offer any sort of explanation. She’s alone.

She throws off the blanket that was covering her body and stands up on shaky legs. Her shoes are off her feet but she’s still dressed: her skirt is torn, the seams misaligned, and her blouse smells faintly of sweat, untucked, with blood speckling her chest like little drops of paint. She feels nauseated and afraid. The cot she was on was uncomfortable but it looked clean, and she’s in some sort of arsenal, she thinks, a small one room apartment covered with guns and bags filled with what must be ammo. She presses her fist to her mouth and wheezes, keeping the panic curdling in her stomach at bay. She doesn’t know where her bag is, doesn’t know where her own gun is, but she can grab one of these maybe, just to be safe, and then - 

She hears the sound of running water and then a door opens. Her eyes dart over and she stumbles back, nearly falls back onto the bed. The bathroom light is a bright, angry yellow in the dim room and a hulking figure limned in black stands in the doorway. She blinks, still afraid, until she recognizes him.

It’s Frank.

No, she thinks, watching as he doesn’t look at her, as he walks in and moves towards the sink, it’s the Punisher. His back is to her and she feels vulnerable and exposed even though his eyes aren’t on her. She’s still shaken, a little afraid, and she isn’t quite sure how to ask for an explanation. Any moisture in her mouth is gone and her tongue lays still and dry, mute, as she stares at him. His head turns slightly, once, as he plugs in a percolator and starts making coffee. She doesn’t see his eyes. He’s dressed down, in a black shirt and jeans that sit loose on his hips. His head is shaved and she stares at the smooth curve of his neck as his head bends to look at something on the counter.

He still doesn’t speak.

She can’t leave without shoes, she decides, or her gun. She knows she had it with her, in her bag, and with her wallet and phone inside she needs that, too.

With a shaky breath, she wraps her arms around herself. She hasn’t seen him in a few months and she’s not sure what to say to him. She’s not even sure this is the same man she knew before. _I’m already dead_ , he had told her, already gone. Frank Castle died with his family, and now even the broken fragments of him she knew are gone. She doesn’t know who this new person is, this new animal, but she doesn’t have the luxury to find out.

“Where’s… where’s my stuff?” she asks. “My shoes and. My shoes and my bag.” Her voice sounds strange when she speaks, too loud in a room with only the ambient city noise as a soundtrack. He still doesn’t look at her, though she sees his shoulders tense. It gets a little easier now to talk. “And what happened? Where am I? I woke up, and I can barely remember what happened last night. I met Foggy at a bar, but I didn’t have that much to drink, and then - “

“And then somebody who’d been waiting for you got you when you left the bar.” His voice is so rough it hurts to hear, but it isn’t out of place in here. His hide-out, she assumes. His base. His voice fills the room like smoke and she feels surrounded by him. He still won’t look at her. “You fought him, but he hit you, threw you against a building, knocked you unconscious.”

“Then how did I - “ 

He turns and she cuts herself off as she meets his eyes. It _hurts_ to see him, hurts in a way she never expected it would. He was dead to her, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that what she told him? Wasn’t that what she _meant_? Then who is this in front of her, if that man is dead? Who wears his uniform and makes his kills and lives a spartan, war-tempered life here in this arsenal? Karen wants to cry and her lips tremble as she holds back tears. She hates him, a little, still thinks he deserves judgement for his crimes, but she is so, so relieved to see him. 

His face is a mask she can’t read. He licks his lips and says “How did you what?”

“How did I get here?” she asks, quiet, feeling timid, though she forces herself to hold his gaze. 

“I brought you here,” he says, and his eyes burn. “You think they were going to let you stay there unconscious on the ground? You think they just wanted to scare you?”

“Do you know who they were?” she asks, instead of answering his questions. He nods. “You know why they were after me?” He nods again. She’s surprised he’s been keeping up with what she’s doing - it can’t be a coincidence he just happened on her the exact moment she needed saving. She’s had a target on her back for a week, at least, after what she’s been digging up. She wonders how long he’s been making sure no one hits it. “Did you kill him? The man who attacked me?”

“I did.” Her lip trembles and she pulls it between her teeth. His expression doesn’t change. “He deserved to die. You didn’t.”

She’s not so sure about that sometimes. “You could have left me there, or taken me to a hospital, or called… called Daredevil.”

“Safe here,” he says. 

“Yeah,” she says, wondering what that says about her own home. She breaks her eyes away from his and looks around again. “I guess I am.”

They stand there, silent, for a long moment. He doesn’t say anything else and as the silence begins to grow awkward he turns back towards the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee. It’s in a cracked green mug and Karen watches him as he takes a drink, traces the long line of his throat as he swallows. She doesn’t ask for any coffee, though he’d pulled out another cup. 

“Your bag and your shoes are on the chair,” he says, gesturing with his coffee towards a single folding chair set up across from the bed. There’s a little table set up, as well, covered in rags and a two short stacks of papers and another gun. “You should go home.”

She’s not sure if she’ll be safe on her way there, if she needs an escort, if he’ll follow her back whether she wants him to or not. She just nods and goes over to her things, slips her shoes on her feet and the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

“Don’t know if anything is missing,” he says, “but I checked and your gun’s still there.”

“Thank you.” Karen pushes her hair behind her ear. It’s dirty and tangled and she needs a shower. She still feels exhausted. Seeing the Punisher has not helped. “I guess I’ll… go. Head home, then.” 

He nods back at her and steps behind her as she reaches the door. She turns to look at him before she goes. His eyes are full and black and burning, and his mouth is set in a firm line. “Thank you,” she says again, and gently she reaches out and sets a hand against his cheek. He’s real and warm beneath her fingers, and his skin is rough with stubbly growth. But he’s here. And he’s alive. 

She puts a hand to his face and - Jesus Christ, she thinks. Frank lets her.

**Author's Note:**

> I have... many feelings about these two
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://librarian-repellent.tumblr.com)


End file.
